


The 5 times Harry doesn't ask Louis to prom

by orphan_account



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: 5 and 1 fic, Alternate Universe - High School, Drabble, M/M, Pining, Prom, Unresolved Sexual Tension, harry's complete inability to do anything except pine over louis, or whatever the fuck they're called, pretty much - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-02
Updated: 2013-04-02
Packaged: 2017-12-07 07:32:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/745926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And the 1 time he does</p>
            </blockquote>





	The 5 times Harry doesn't ask Louis to prom

**Author's Note:**

> Well, the title pretty much says it all tbh… It’s really kind of drabbly, but basically I saw an AU meme about Harry asking Louis to prom on Tumblr a while ago, and this happened...

1.

Harry knows that he should really be paying attention to what the teacher is saying for once in his life. After all, this is a last-minute study session and he’s not here for nothing - he’s at severe risk of failing at least two of the subjects he’s taking if he doesn’t do some serious revision now that exams are literally around the corner. Maths has always been one of his weakest areas, and presumably the numerous shapes and angles scrawled all over the whiteboard are intended to inform him, rather than just look pretty, so it would probably be a good idea to actually look at them. Or at least to try and _pretend_ that he’s paying attention to the circle theorems his teacher has been droning on about for almost an hour now.

But he isn’t, and the reason for that would be obvious to anyone who was paying attention. The fact is that he’s been staring at Louis for the best part of half an hour now, and he’s fairly sure that in all that time he hasn’t breathed. He’s not sure he can remember how to.

It’s not like he’s never seen Louis before, of course - they’ve been sat next to each other in history lessons for the past year, and even before then they knew each other peripherally simply from being in the same year group. But never before has he had this great an opportunity to simply stare at the boy who he’s had a minor crush on for almost as long.

His skin, already tanned by the weak British summer sunshine, is glowing in the dim light of the classroom, and Harry swears Louis is the only person who could look this good at 3.50 pm on a Wednesday when all everyone wants is to get home. For the past ten minutes, maybe, Harry has been captivated by Louis’ eyelashes. They’re so long, almost like a girl’s, and the dusty sunlight streaming through the gaps in the blinds seems to reflect off them and reflect the delicate shades of brown and even blonde concealed within the fine hairs. 

Before that he was focused on the way his shorty, slightly stubby fingers are tapping absent-mindedly against the desk, and the angle of Louis’ head that makes him look a little like an intrigued puppy, and the blue of his eyes that Harry has memorised over the years down to the small flecks of gold that are only visible in lighting just like this. Basically everything other than the work he should really have his attention focused on.

So he has a moderate crush on him, perhaps.

“Oi, stop staring,” a whisper from behind him suddenly snaps Harry out of his reverie, and he shakes his head slightly to rid it from the clouds of admiration that have hung over his thoughts like cobwebs. Turning, he sees Niall sat behind him wearing a ridiculously large grin for this time in the midweek. He’s also holding out a crumpled piece of paper folded in half several times to conceal the message within.

“I was not staring,” mutters Harry, not wanting Louis to overhear. Niall just raises an eyebrow and hands him the note. Deciding not to push the fact that he was absolutely and definitely not just obviously checking Louis out, Harry unfurls the scrap of paper to try and decipher Niall’s hasty scrawl.

_You hear that Perrie asked Zayn to prom? That girl’s punching above her weight if you ask me… Have you thought about who you’re gonna go with?_

Harry’s desire to laugh out loud at the fact that he’s basically best friends with a teenage girl in the body of a loud Irish boy diminishes as he reads the last sentence, to be replaced with a growing sense of dread. His stomach drops as he contemplates the fact that of course he has thought about who he wants to go with. Unfortunately, that is a complete impossibility.

*

First and foremost, it was always going to be hard enough for Harry to get a date what with his whole being gay. His sexuality has never been an issue with any but the hopelessly ignorant of the student body; he was never popular to begin with, and coming out the year before did nothing to change that. But the problem with finding someone to go to prom with him is that the only two other openly gay guys in his year are currently sat in the same room as him, with no chance of him ever going to have even a chance with either of them. Niall, because just no. That would just be way too weird, after them having been best friends for 5 years, not to mention the fact that there have never been any other feelings than friendship between the two of them. So the only other valid option in the form of an openly bisexual guy is currently sat next to him, and only available in the land of daydreams and Harry’s embarrassingly frequent fantasies. And obviously there is absolutely no way that is ever, ever going to happen.

*

“What’s that about?” whispers Louis suddenly, almost making Harry jump out of his seat in shock. When he swings his head back around to face the older boy, he’s taken aback as always by how attractive he is, despite having rediscovered every aspect of beauty in his appearance in the hour beforehand. He tries not to stare too much as he gabbles through a response.

“I, um, well - it’s, er…” choosing simply to show Louis rather than further embarrass himself, Harry slides the paper across the desk so his classmate can read it. Louis huffs out a laugh after a few seconds, before handing the note back.

“Prom, huh?” he asks in that consistently casual tone of voice that only the popular seem to be able to master. Harry shrugs. Internally, however, he’s trying not to scream because Louis Tomlinson is asking him about prom, when all he really wants is to ask him there himself, and that is just so many shades of unfair.

“Yeah, it’s all everyone seems to be talking about - well, that and exams.”

*

Louis’ smile is like the sun radiating through the thick, dusty air of the classroom, and Harry has to avert his eyes at one point when he just can’t cope. He can feel Niall’s gaze on them from behind him, which is slightly awkward, but he’s suddenly aware of how his foot is accidentally brushing Louis’ leg, and that makes him grin too. Then Louis speaks again and all of that just crumbles.

“I’m not sure I’m gonna go, myself. Kind of cliché, isn’t it - having a ‘prom’ to celebrate the fact that pretty much all of us are all going to the same sixth form college after the holidays?” Harry can feel his body curling in on itself, his shoulders hunching and his gaze averting back down to the desk. He can’t bring himself to look at Louis any more.

“Um, yeah, I guess… It’s, er, not like I have anyone to go with anyway -” Then the bell is ringing out, high and piercing above their heads, and Harry is stood up almost instantly so that he can get out of the classroom as soon as possible.

*

2.

The buzz of performing has always invigorated Harry, always made him so pumped up in the moments before he gets up to the microphone and so drained during the come-down that he’s still usually jittery with energy for up to an hour after it’s over. Which he’s trying to convince himself is the reason why he’s currently near to shaking, his fingers drumming rapid-fire beats against the denim of his jeans and his breathing coming thick and fast because he’s just recently poured his heart and soul into a composition with the band he’s been trying to make something of for the past year and a half. It doesn’t have anything to do with the fact that Louis Tomlinson is currently talking to him at all.

*

He wasn’t even expecting Louis to be here, although he guesses it probably has more to do with his mate Josh who’s probably the best drummer in the school, rather than a curly haired kid with a voice that’s too low for him. Even so, Louis still made a point to come up to Harry once the show was over, which makes something in Harry’s chest flip and skip a beat. But he is trying so hard now to keep it cool it’s almost like a physical strain, because it’s so rare that he gets time alone with Louis like this. Normally they’re both in lessons, when constraints on their speech are largely imparted by their teachers, and although Louis makes a point to stop and talk to Harry when he sees him in the corridor or the lunch hall, their time is rushed and never long enough to say everything that the younger boy has doubtless planned in his head for days before. But now that he has the opportunity to talk plainly and openly with Louis, all thoughts have flown clean out of his head. All he can seem to do is nod and laugh and smile so much that hi cheeks are starting to hurt because the simple truth is that Louis looks _gorgeous_. Harry will never get used to the vision of perfection that is Louis out of school uniform, and the way his tight white t-shirt clings to his chest, emphasising the muscles there from years of football training, has him practically watering at the mouth. Not to mention the perfectly coiffured hair, and the skinny jeans that Harry’s trying hard not to look at to avoid an exceedingly awkward boner. All in all, Harry is doing a very bad job of keeping it cool.

*

Louis doesn’t seem to mind, though, because he’s been talking to Harry for the best part of five minutes already, and he’s not showing any signs of stopping. It’s not that he likes the sound of his own voice or anything, but Louis understands that Harry is a slow speaker and prefers to listen rather than participate, and over the past year they’ve reached a comfortable compromise where Louis does most of the speaking but always makes sure to step back and let Harry have his say because for some reason he actually seems interested in what the younger boy has to say. He listens attentively whenever Harry is talking, and even laughs at his dire jokes, which no living human has ever done before. Harry kind of loves Louis for that. But anyway, Louis is speaking and Harry is listening and nodding and trying not to blush because the other teenager keeps complimenting his performance earlier. Although he knows it was good (he’s not vain or anything, but he’s been working towards his final GCSE performance for months and that sort of hard work tends to pay off), hearing Louis say so feels like the only validation Harry ever needs. He’s trying to make up for the praise by complimenting things that he knows Louis is good at, like football and playing guitar, but then he stops that train of speech pretty quickly because what he really wants to compliment Louis on is the way his thumbs are tucked into the waistband of his jeans and he’s stood resting his weight on one leg and Harry wants him so badly it’s really rather embarrassing.

*

For a moment he wonders what would happen if he actually did say that. If he told Louis how he feels about him, about how he’s fairly sure the older boy is the most attractive person he’s ever seen in his life, and how he can’t stop thinking about what it would be like to ask Louis to prom. Probably Louis’ reaction would be to frown disgustedly and run away as fast as possible, but there’s always a _chance_ , a small chance, but a chance nonetheless, that maybe he would say yes. Maybe he would agree to Harry’s unexpected proposal, and the 16 year old’s dreams could actually come true! His mind is suddenly filled with images of Louis at prom in a suit, and he has to will himself even harder than normal not to get hard because that is possibly the hottest thing on the planet. His mouth begins to open, although he has no idea what the fuck he would say even if he could manage to get words out, because this is not the sort of thing he does. He is quiet and cautious and only ever observes his crushes from a distance until eventually the longing slips away, because he taught himself a long time ago that it will never amount to anything. Yet the image of Louis and him at prom together is still fresh in his mind, and his breath is coming thick and fast, and this seems the perfect scenario to be stupid and reckless, so he gulps and says…

*

“Hey, Louis, you coming mate?” Suddenly an Asian boy who Harry recognises as being Zayn appears behind Louis, wearing the sort of half-bored, half-intriguing pout that has half the girls in the school falling at his feet. Louis looks disappointed for a moment that his time with Harry is being cut short (or maybe it’s for some other reason, he doesn’t know, it’s not like he’s presuming anything), but then his usual infectious grin is back in place, and he turns away from the younger boy to reply.

“Yeah, sure, Frankie’s having the party at his house, right?” Nodding, Zayn puts a decidedly matey arm around Louis’ shoulders and practically drags him away, frowning at Harry in a way that makes it clear he does _not_ approve of some little music geek ruining his friend’s social standing. Louis just has time to shoot Harry an apologetic grin and call out ‘see you, Harry!’ before he’s gone once again. Harry can only stare after him, feeling his heartbeat resume its normal rate from where it’s been racing like a mouse on steroids inside his chest. He releases his breath without realising he was holding it, and feels how his fingers are digging into his thighs from the inside of his jeans’ pockets. Slowly he begins to relax, after being on edge for the past few minutes while he’s been contemplating the idea of actually doing what he’s been dreaming about for longer than he’s care to admit. A slow, shaky sigh escapes from his lips.

*

He doesn’t even realise Niall is walking towards him, until the blonde boy is stood next to him, wearing a snapback and a sly grin. When Harry notices it, he raises his eyes in a question that makes Niall chuckle under his breath.

“You’re so gone,” he mutters, the grin playing with the edges of his mouth once again. Harry tries to ignore him. It’s true, though, because Niall has this habit of always being right when it comes to his feelings for Louis, which is so damn annoying it makes him want to hit him and thank him and kiss him - in a completely platonic way, of course.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he states stiffly, biting the inside of his mouth to stop himself from saying something stupid like how much he wants to press Louis up against the wall until his hair is a mess and his lips are bruised from kissing. Niall just laughs and ruffles Harry’s hair while the other student pouts and tries to act like he’s not gone at all.

*

3.

Niall doesn’t bring the subject up again until Friday in French. It’s one of the few subjects they still take together these days, and they realised soon after picking it for GCSE that neither of them exactly have a flair for languages. Suffice to say, they tend to spend their lessons chatting rather than memorising past participles, or whatever the fuck they’re _supposed_ to be doing.

“You should just ask Louis to the prom,” says Niall out of the blue as he doodles in the margins of his exercise book. Harry chokes on air, his pen sliding out of his grip and sliding across the paper to unwittingly underline his verb table. Quickly he glances around to check whether anyone is listening in to their conversation, then turns back to Niall, scandalised.

*

“What?” he asks, unsure if he was just imagining things.

“Louis,” Niall repeats, as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You should ask him to prom.”

“I, um,” Harry doesn’t know what to say. How did Niall know about his fantasy? Obviously the Irish lad has known all about Harry’s crush on Louis pretty much since it started (actually he claims to have known even before that, but Harry has a tendency to take all Niall’s opinions on his love life with a grain of salt), but surely he’s heard enough of his best friend’s private rants and explanations to understand why what he’s just suggested is in no way a viable option! “I don’t know,” mutters Harry eventually, fixing his gaze back down on the textbook in front of him. “I mean, what if he says no?”

*

Niall smirks, before realising Harry is being serious and staring at him incredulously.

“Why the fuck would he say no?” Harry blinks. Internally he’s listing a hundred different reasons why Louis Tomlinson would definitely not agree to go to prom with him. Eventually he settles on the most obvious.

“Because he’s cool and popular and pretty, and I’m… not,” he explains, unable to keep the tone of dejection from his voice on the last word. Niall is still staring. “And because I barely know him, and he’s not even going to prom anyway, and –“

*

“Mr Styles!” a booming voice cuts over his own, and he realises that the class have fallen silent around him. Gulping, Harry looks up at where his teacher, Mr Donlon, is stood at the front of the class, glaring pointedly at the student. “Now that you’ve decided to listen, would you care to tell us what the _vous_ form of _descendre_ is?” Harry knows this (no, honestly, he does) but his head is still caught up in Niall and prom and damn Louis Tomlinson, and he can’t think fast enough. “Too slow!” interrupts Mr Donlon, then sighs. “Look Harry, I know your exams are over, but you still need to get your attendance marks for my classes, and that includes paying attention!” Harry nods sheepishly, and waits for the teacher to turn to the rest of the class before going back to his work. Just as he’s reading about MRS VANDERTRAMP for the 20th time, Niall leans over to whisper in his ear. Well, his idea of a whisper, which means everyone at the surrounding desks can still hear him.

“Look, all I’m saying is that you’ve got three weeks, right? So if you’re gonna do something about your frankly painfully obvious feelings for him, then you’d better do it soon!” It’s true, and that annoys Harry because he doesn’t want it to be.

“Well, who are you going with?” he counters, but quiet enough to not be called out by the teacher again. To his surprise, Niall flushes an unholy shade of red, and stammers.

“I – I, er, no one,” mutters the older boy, and Harry manages to smile because that means this conversation is over.

*

When Harry leaves the hall after his final exam the next Monday, his neck and back are aching and he has cramp in his hand from writing, and his brain feels like it’s turned to a hazy fuzz, but he’s smiling. He’s smiling because he finally has relief after two hours of non-stop writing. He’s smiling because he no longer has to think about the treaties of the Treaty of Versailles for at least two months until he starts history A-Level. Mostly, though, he’s smiling because he’s talking to Louis, and he can’t seem to stop doing that whenever they’re together. Still, it’s better than other, more embarrassing, reactions his body could be having. They’re walking side by side, talking about the contents of the exam paper, and Harry keeps watching the way their arms swing in unison, just a few centimetres away from touching. It would be so easy, he thinks, to move his hand just a little to the left and take Louis’ with it. Suddenly he notices there is silence between them, and looks up to see Louis looking at him as though expecting an answer to a question Harry hasn’t heard one word of.

*

“What?” he asks without thinking, but Louis just chuckles amicably.

“I was just wondering if you’d asked anyone to prom yet?” he explains, and if Harry wasn’t so busy watching Louis’ lips as he talks then he’s hear the lack of the older boy’s usual confidence in his voice, notice the way he fiddles with the hem of his untucked school shirt nervously. But he doesn’t, and instead he feels himself turning the exact shade of fire-engine red that Niall did when he asked him the self-same question last week. This _cannot_ be happening! His voice is doing strange things, and he thinks he might be speaking, but he can’t be sure because his brain is screaming at him _ABORT ABORT ABORT!_

*

“I’m sorry – I, er, I have to, um, yeah…” he hears himself saying as he backs away, before turning an pretty much springing down the corridor simply so he can try to escape the awkward anxiety that is crawling up his throat and making his skin itch until he wants to tear at it to get rid of the regret that is already blossoming there, like deep purple bruises. He’s so intent on getting out of there that he doesn’t register the hurt look on Louis face, or the way he sighs deeply as he buries his head in his hands. Harry is too busy banging his own head against a locker on the floor below, the dull repetition mixed with sharp jolts of pain numbing him until he can almost forget everything that just happened.

*

4.

Harry definitely doesn’t avoid Louis for the rest of the week. He just happens to not talk to him at all, and whenever he sees him in the corridor he suddenly gets an urge to duck into the nearest toilet because he has a weak bladder or something. But absolutely definitely _not_ avoiding. He has standards, after all.

*

So it’s just a complete coincidence that he doesn’t end up having the chance to apologise for his embarrassing behaviour earlier in the week until Thursday when they have history together. For once he ends up turning up early to the classroom, and sits at his desk awkwardly while the other students ignore him as usual. The teacher has put on the usual attitude of post-exam not-giving-a-fuck, and she informs the class the moment they step into the room that they can sit wherever they want rather than obeying by the usual seating plan. Harry sighs and plants his chin in his hands. He knows no one will want to sit with him - it’s not that he’s deeply unpopular at his school, but given that his only friend is Niall he resigns himself to the fact that he will be lonely for the last few lessons of term. Oh well, at least he has his iPod.

*

Louis comes in late, grass stains on his shirt from where he’s been playing football outside because for some indiscernible reason he actually likes sport. Anyone else would be teased mercilessly for the green streaks, but on him it just looks cool. Like everything else about him. Harry tries hard not to stare. Which is extremely hard, given the circumstances, and he reckons he ought to be given a medal or something for not whimpering when Louis stretches and the shirt rises up to show a few centimetres of perfect, tanned skin stretched over sell-defined muscles. Even if he does make a slightly desperate, horrifically embarrassing noise under his breath, no one is around to hear it so technically it never happened. And his breath absolutely doesn’t catch audibly in his throat when Louis plonks himself down on the seat next to him, the heady smell of freshly cut grass and sweat and boy fresh on his body.

“You know you don’t have to sit next to me, right?” asks Harry, not letting his hopes get up this quickly. Presumably Louis just missed the ‘no seating plan’ memo, rather than actually _wanting_ to sit next to Harry when there are so many other, more popular, people in their class. However Louis simply smiles and shrugs, leaning back in chair casually.

“Yeah, I know,” he begins, and Harry has to physically stop his mouth from hanging open because things like this do not happen to people like him. Nerdy music fans don’t have the most popular boy in the school volunteer to spend time with them, regardless of how friendly they may be. “But I want to sit here anyway,” Louis continues, and his smile is so wide and infectious that Harry can’t help but grin too, despite his shock.

*

OK, so maybe he is totally smitten over Louis after all, but there is absolutely no way he’s ever going to admit that to Niall.

*

As seems to be happening every time he’s within a ten foot radius of Louis these days, Harry finds his find automatically beginning to drift to the subject of the prom. It’s like he’s obsessed with it or something, which is so stupid it honestly makes him want to cringe at times, because, Jesus, it’s meant to be Niall who’s really into all this sort of crap, not _him_. But if he’s going to act like a teenage girl with a crush whenever he speaks, or, let’s be honest, even thinks about Louis, then he guesses that has to amass to something as ridiculously cliché as asking him to the final social event before this chapter of their lives is over forever. If only he could get the chance to.

*

Throughout the course of the lesson, Harry keeps seeing opportunities when he could do it, before they’re snatched from out of his grasp at the last moment. A small part of him can’t help but think that maybe his subconscious is doing this deliberately; perhaps it’s because that fear of rejection is still burning bright deep inside him that he’s deliberately ruining every chance he gets. Then he brushes that thought aside, dismissing it as ridiculous because he _wants_ this, he really does, he just has no idea how to go about it. He’s never done this before, never had to ask anyone on a date – he’s never even had a boyfriend except for a quick fling last summer, which was easy and simple because the boy was hot and forgettable and more interested in shoving his tongue down Harry’s throat than speaking, and wasn’t Louis fucking Tomlinson. Now he actually has to act on his feelings without knowing if they’ll even be returned, and even if he had more courage than he does, everyone knows words aren’t his strong point.

*

So he lets the seconds and minutes and hours slip by, immersing himself in staring out of the window so that he can’t be distracted by the astounding, improbable, ridiculous beauty that is Louis. One time their feet knock together under the desk by accident and the two of them look up in the same moment, eyes catching for the briefest of heartbeats before Harry ducks his head down, blushing and breaking the gaze with half-formed sentences still resting on the end of his tongue. A couple of times he swears he feels Louis staring at him, but when he turns back around, the older boy is studying the board or filling out the stupid quiz they’re doing now that exams are over or doing anything other than even glancing his way. So maybe Harry keeps on looking for just a few more seconds, just to make sure, but it’s not like he’s staring creepily or anything, he’s simply… deciding this isn’t the right moment. As always. And when at the end of the deathly dull two hour session (which seems even more pointless than usual, given they finished their exams several days ago) he finally leans forward with the intention of just asking without thinking because when does he ever think, really, the teacher has to stand up and start handing out sheets about their reading material over the holidays.

*

Harry has decided he really hates teachers lately.

*

But he groans along with the rest of the class (except maybe he actually just watches the way Louis’ breath cascades from his lips and his shoulders sag forwards and his back arches just a little so the knobs of his spine are visible through his shirt (but that doesn’t mean anything, and, again, no one can prove it so whatever)), then decides he might as well give up. Clearly fate does not want him to have this one. He doesn’t like the idea of his life being propelled and predetermined by forces beyond his control, but if that gives him an excuse to just lay his head on the desk for the last few minutes of class and blast Nirvana into his ears as loudly as possible in an attempt to forget all about prom and history and Louis Tomlinson, then he’ll happily accept.

*

5.

Harry is going to do it this time. Honestly, he is. He’s been planning what he’s going to say and do for weeks now, and because he’s just the sort of person to blame his cowardice on bad timing or lack of opportunities, he’s decided that today is going to be _the_ day. Today he is going to ask Louis to go to the prom with him, with no excuses. After all, how hard can it be? As Niall keeps repeatedly telling him, all he has to do is go up to him and ask the one simple question that could result in rejection and total humiliation and the complete end of Harry’s already practically non-existent social standing. Taking a deep breath to calm himself down, Harry blinks heavily and continues ignoring the quadratic equations in the textbook in front of him. He can’t seem to help overthinking things when it comes to Louis, simply because he’s so scared that the older boy will say no when he finally gets around to asking. It’s not even really about the prom any more - it’s just a dance, even Harry can see that. No, what he’s really scared of is rejection, because if Louis says no then he just knows it’s going to feel like someone has ripped his heart clean out of his chest, only to let it drop to the floor and land in amongst the dirt and debris. He knows it’s stupid, knows that he and Louis don’t even know each other that well, knows that there are probably dozens of other people who want to go to the prom with Louis Tomlinson - straight girls, probably, who stand way more of a chance than a pale, skinny boy with stupid hair and ridiculous fantasies. But he also knows that there’s something about Louis that he just can’t seem to resist, and that he’s become far too invested in this idea to stop himself now. Which is why he is absolutely definitely going to ask him today. Well, once this lesson is over, anyway.

*

Harry just has time to scribble a few numbers that look vaguely right in amongst the mess of doodles that is his exercise book, before finally the bell is ringing for lesson changeover. Without even bothering to pack his things up properly, he throws the mess of pencils and scraps of paper into his bag and practically runs out of the room. He knows he’s acting more than a little desperate, but the thing is he kind of is. He didn’t realise how much he wants this before, however now that he’s made his mind up to follow Niall’s advice and just ask Louis to prom, he wants to do it as soon as possible. The fear of rejection is still there of course, burning white hot and dangerous in the back of his head, and he knows there is still every chance that Louis could say no. But there’s also the chance he could say yes, and that, Harry has decided, is far more important. He sees Louis stood outside their history classroom, leaning against the wall and looking ridiculously attractive; Harry’s heart actually skips a beat, and he finds himself frozen for a full minute until he can remember how to breathe.

*

When he’s restored to as normal as is possible right now, he heads straight over to the boy in wide, lanky strides. All his previous confidence is draining out of him, but he’s determined to keep it cool. Louis smiles as he sees Harry approaching, which makes him melt a little inside.

“Hey there,” he calls out, and Harry decides a bit of small talk can’t hurt. Well, that and the fact that he’s suddenly absolutely terrified of what he’s about to do. So he lets Louis chatter on for a few minutes about something he’s not really listening to - he loves to hear the older boy talk, but right now he’s focused on trying not to pass out with nerves. It’s so ridiculous to get himself worked up like this, and he knows that, but he can’t help himself. This is a big fucking deal for him, because it’s more than prom now. It’s about the fact that he happens to have the world’s biggest crush on someone who should be totally unobtainable, and he thinks that if Louis doesn’t say yes then he just might die. Eventually he manages to summon up a little courage from God knows where - just enough to cut across what Louis is saying with something far more important.

“Louis, I need to ask you something.” The other teen looks surprised by the sudden interruption, but also strangely hopeful. Harry doesn’t have time to process that, however, because this is it. It’s now or never - if he doesn’t do this now then there’s a large chance he never will, and that’s far more scary that the prospect of humiliation.

*

Except maybe it’s not. Harry can deal with not being wanted by other people, but he feels so much for Louis that he thinks being rejected by him would tear his world apart. Maybe it would be better simply not to ask at all, to live his life just yearning for something he can’t have rather than risk having it confirmed? It’s cowardly, he knows that, and he’s yelling at himself internally to just say the damn words he’s been practising in his head for so long. If only it were that simple.

*

Louis is raising his eyebrows at him now, and Harry has to give him some sort of answer or risk coming off as a total freak. Not that he isn’t anyway, mind you. In a moment of blind panic, he allows himself to say the first thing that comes into his head, which is never a good idea.

“I - er, do you, um… Do you know what time the maths exam is next week?” Louis’ expression drops, which Harry doesn’t think is exactly fair because it’s him who’s now feeling like an absolute idiot as he listens to his companion’s mumbled response and wonders why he seems to lack the ability to act like a normal human being. His stomach is sinking so far down that he’s surprised he can’t see it splattered on the floor in between his pigeon-toed feet as he firmly avoids Louis’ gaze.

*

Why can’t he ever do anything to make himself happy?

*

6.

The rest of the lesson is spent in awkward silence between the two of them, with Harry choosing to put his headphones in rather than suffer the humiliation he’s brought upon himself. He can’t help but think that it would actually have been easier to ask Louis to the prom than to have to sit through this awful tension. The moment the bell rings he is out of there again and running home, determined never to have to hear the name Louis Tomlinson again.

*

Unfortunately, it seems Niall is not going to let him get away with giving up that easily. When he texts Harry after school, he’s chirpy and even more excited than usual at the prospect of ‘his OTP finally getting together’. Harry isn’t quite sure what that’s supposed to mean, but he’s grown used to Niall’s eccentricities over the years and so simply smiles fondly at the message before he remembers the truth behind his situation with Louis and his expression drops like a stone. It takes him a good 2 minutes or so to bring himself to type out the words _‘I didn’t do it’_ before he throws the phone onto the bed next to him in disgust at himself. Earlier he’d simply been annoyed that he couldn’t manage to do the very thing he’d promised himself he would, but now he’s angry. Why couldn’t he just have seized the opportunity when he had the chance, and when he’d been so determined beforehand? After barely a few seconds his phone vibrates, but he chooses to ignore the message out of fear of Niall’s disappointment. But just as he’s begun wallowing in his own self-pity once more, the screen lights up and the tinny tune of Blink 182’s Family Reunion alerts him to the fact that he has an incoming call. Without even bothering to check the caller ID, Harry sighs, braces himself for what’s to come, and takes the call.

*

“What do you mean you didn’t do it?” Niall’s loud Irish accent barks down the line immediately, making Harry wince at the sudden rise in volume.

“I… I dunno, I just - I couldn’t ask him…” he stutters out, knowing how pathetic it sounds. Niall cuts across him then, sounding distraught in a way that Harry knows is meant to be joking, but still makes him feel bad. It’s bad enough being a disappointment to himself, let alone Niall.

“You mean to tell me that the two people who I ship more than anything in the world are not going to be going to the prom together?”

*

When Harry responds, his voice is rapid and breathy and not quite held together.

“I’m really sorry, I wanted to, I swear - but I was so scared and it was all too real and I just… I couldn’t do it!”

“Hey, calm down, Harry,” Niall’s voice is suddenly softer as he tries to stop his best mate from having a complete breakdown over this. “I’m not gonna murder you for not asking him or something! I just want you to be happy, mate, and it’s obvious from the way you’re obsessed over Louis that being with him will make you happy. Plus the fact that you would make a totally adorable couple, of course.” A small smile tugs his way across Harry’s face at that. Trust Niall to always know how to cheer him up.

“Hey, I’m not obsessed over him!” he counters in a voice that is just a little too quiet for banter, and Niall simply laughs.

*

“Oh really? Then how come you know all his classes despite only being in two of them with him, _and_ every activity in his extensive social life? And what about that time at Sasha’s party when you decided to list every aspect of him that you find attractive - in disgustingly minute detail I might add!”

“Oh, come on, I was drunk!” protests Harry, blushing at the memory, but he’s laughing and sitting up and generally feeling a whole lot less crappy than he did five minutes ago. Niall tends to have that effect on people, no matter how shitty a mood they’re in. “Thanks Niall,” he mutters, and he doesn’t have to explain why because Niall always gets it anyway.

“It’s nothing, mate,” he replies jovially before his voice turns uncharacteristically serious. “Just please, tell me you are going to ask him eventually, right? Because seriously, no one deserves to be together more than you two.” Talking over Harry’s protestations that Louis definitely deserves better than him, Niall continues. “I’ve seen the way you both look at each other, Harry, and how he acts when he’s around you - he lights up like a fucking bulb or something! Not to mention how Josh says he can’t stop talking about you during football practise…” Harry’s quite tempted to add in a suggestive comment about why exactly Niall’s been talking to Josh so much, but instead he just listens. “Believe me, he’s just as smitten about you as you are about him, alright? So stop worrying about him saying no, and start worrying about the matching suits you need to buy in time for the prom!” Harry laughs out loud at that, feeling suddenly more relaxed than he has done all day, and all his worries seem to melt away as he thinks about the idea of Louis in a suit and tie. Him and Niall banter for a little more, then the Irish boy hangs up, and Harry is left more determined than ever to go ahead and ask the most simultaneously terrifying and exhilarating question of his life.

*

And he is determined, honestly. He’s never wanted anything more in his life than to ask Louis to this prom, despite how ridiculous that sounds, but over the next few weeks there is simply no opportunity to do so. No, really this time. When he gets back to school on the Monday, Louis is off sick, and he stays off for the whole week. Every day Harry glances keenly around the lunch hall in the morning, hoping to spot the familiar tousled blown hair and piercing blue eyes that he adores so much, but to no avail. In history he glances longingly at the empty seat next to him, wishing that the older boy was there so that he could finally take the chance he’s been dreaming about for so long. It’s bloody typical, he thinks, that when he’s finally worked up the courage to carry out the task he’s been too scared to perform up until this point, he sincerely lacks the opportunity. With each passing day, he can feel his hope dwindling along with the time he has left. The next week Louis is back, looking more attractive than ever from the time spend apart, Harry reckons. Niall just laughs at him and calls him hopelessly in love. Harry hits him and says he wouldn’t be this amused if he was the one stressing out about having no fucking clue where their potential prom date is. Inside, he knows he’s over-reacting just a little, but he can’t help it. After having wanted something for so long, the thought of it being snatched from his grasp by a cruel twist of fate is just too much for him to bear.

*

So Harry almost has a breakdown when he wakes up on Monday morning and realises that the prom is in two days’ time and he still hasn’t even talked to Louis about it. Everyone else he knows has planned everything months in advance - even Niall finally admitted last week that Josh asked him to go along, and the two of them are so sickeningly cute that Harry can’t even bring himself to be jealous. Now only Harry is left, with his stupid inhibitions and his stupid crush and his stupid face. Niall just sighs resignedly when Harry reveals his inability to do what the rest of his year group have managed so easily, and Harry knows that he’s given up even if he refuses to admit it. When Niall invites him to come along with him and Josh as a mate, Harry politely refuses. Being the third wheel for a whole night doesn’t exactly sound like fun, whereas sitting at home eating his own bodyweight in chocolate and watching Friends reruns is starting to seem like a rather attractive prospect. It’s better than having to go and see Louis Tomlinson at any rate.

*

Talking of Louis Tomlinson, for the first time since that awful, embarrassing, frankly unbearable history lesson they’re together again. And Harry is… not asking him to prom. Obviously.

*

At least this time he has an excuse in that they’ve been too busy spending the whole afternoon fetching gym equipment and playing referee for a variety of different sports. They both need extra credits for 6th form applications, and for some reason Harry decided that the best way to do so would be to help out in the PE department, despite always having hated the teachers, the lessons, and the subject in public. He didn’t realise that Louis would be there too, until he turned up and was greeted with the frankly unfair view of the older student wearing a pair of shorts that did absolutely everything to show off his arse. It was literally all Harry could do to not get a boner, which is really more than he thought he’d have to deal with at 9 on a Monday morning. Since then, he’s been trying to find an opportunity to talk to Louis, and to finally take the chance he’s terrified yet electrified by the thought of, but none have arisen. It’s like the PE teachers are deliberately trying to prevent the course of their undying love, as Niall would say, or being the biggest cock-blocks in the world, as Harry would. All day they’ve been assigning the pupils numerous menial and time-consuming tasks, clearly glad to have assistants to boss around now so they don’t have to do the work themselves. As Harry carries the tenth box of tennis balls that day back to the store room, he reckons he could probably scream with frustration that he’s not currently mumbling his way through an invitation for Louis to come with him to the prom. Even the embarrassment of his own awkwardness would be better than this mind-numbing work!

*

He’s more than a little surprised to walk into the extensively sized cupboard and find Louis there, sitting on a stack of crash mats and bouncing yet another tennis ball against the wall in front of him. Harry vaguely thinks that there would be a mildly amusing closet joke in this scenario if they weren’t both openly decidedly less than straight, before his eyes are drawn to the way Louis’ small, almost feminine hands catch the ball deftly every time, with a precision that the younger boy could only dream of. Sports have never been his prowess, unlike the former school football captain sat in front of him. The door swings shut behind him, closing with a ridiculously loud click that causes Louis to turn to him, wide-eyed, until he realises it’s only Harry and lets an easy-going smile spread across his face. Hopping down onto the cold concrete floor, he’s reaching out before Harry has time to register what is happening, and saying,

“Here, let me take those for you.” As a result, Harry is frozen to the spot the instant he feels those warm, smooth hands brush against his own, and he doesn’t realise that Louis is trying to take the box from him until much too late. Looking up from the tennis balls, his eyes lock with Louis’ in a way that he’s certain has never happened between them before. Normally Harry tries to avoid eye contact anyway, his under confidence having led to a minor case of social anxiety disorder throughout his teenage years, but particularly when it comes to Louis he never allows himself to look directly into the other teen’s eyes. In doing so he feels it would almost be like offering up a piece of his soul, and since his every thought seems to revolve around Louis, that would most definitely not be a good idea.

*

Now, however, he’s staring directly into the clear azure blue of Louis’ irises, which are both at the same time so revealing and yet so impenetrable. Harry swears to God that Louis’ eyes are the most beautiful thing in the world, what with the way they twinkle and dance like the dust in the sunbeams streaming through the tiny window, and despite his normal inhibitions he can’t seem to look away. He feels Louis pluck the box from his grasp, and his arms go limp at his sides, because, yeah, he’s basically a weakling and even carrying boxes has taken it out of him, but they’re both still staring. Harry’s not sure he’s even breathing any more.

*

That is, until Louis glances down suddenly, breaking the gaze, and turns to position the box on a miscellaneous shelf crammed with badminton racquets and basketballs. Harry feels his breath flutter out of him like a caged butterfly, desperate to be free, but then it catches once again when Louis speaks.

“I’m going to miss this place, y’know?” His back is still turned to Harry, his hands fiddling with the drawstrings on a pile of football bibs, but his voice carries in the silence of the room. Harry nods, then realises Louis can’t see him, so speaks up.

“Yeah, me too.” This seems like such a strangely mundane conversation to be having in a store cupboard when they both have places they should be and things they should be doing, yet Harry never wants it to stop. If he can keep talking to Louis, keep staring at him, keep listening to the Yorkshire lilt in his voice that he may or may not have dreamed about before, then he wants to stay here forever. Nostalgia is heavy in the air, and Harry would be choking up a bit at the fact his life as he knows it is almost over, but he’s too busy trying not to let on that he’s never wanted Louis quite as badly as he does now. It’s those damn shorts, he’s certain of it.

*

When Louis turns back around, Harry half-expects him to leave, and makes to step out of the way so he’s no longer blocking the doorway with his ridiculously lanky frame. But Louis’ hands come to his shoulders to stop him, practically pinning him in place, so that suddenly they’re face to face once again. Harry swallows, and the noise is so loud in the silent room that he’s sure Louis must hear it and know how terrified he suddenly us for no real reason. Then there’s a small rush of movement that Harry doesn’t have time to register before a soft, warm sensation against his lips alerts him to the fact that he’s being kissed.

*

Hang on, what?

*

Louis is kissing him, his lips moving gently yet confidently against Harry’s, despite the younger boy having seemingly been frozen to the spot once again. His own lips are unmoving, although they feel like they’ve been set on fire along with the rest of his face, which Harry is certain must now be viridian red. It’s a surprise to him that he hasn’t spontaneously combusted at the sensation of Louis’ fingers digging into his shoulders just a little as his mouth glides soft and smooth against Harry’s. Even once Louis pulls away, breathing heavily and looking rather bashful, Harry still can’t be sure whether this is actually happening or not.

“I – I, um, what…” He’s surprised he can actually talk now, since his breath is coming so thick and fast he might possibly be hyperventilating, yet in between his racing heartbeat and the electric nerves shooting down his spine he figures he has to say something. Even if only to convince Louis that it’s OK, because now the other student’s eyes are wide and he’s starting to back away, and Harry realises that, shit, he _didn’t fucking do anything_. He didn’t even move or speak or do anything to let Louis know that kissing him was absolutely definitely what he wanted. No wonder Louis looks terrified!

*

But when he does open his mouth in an attempt to explain that what they did was far more than OK in his opinion, that he was just too shocked and overjoyed to do anything while it was happening, that’s not exactly what comes out. Really, he should probably have been expecting it. Words never have been his strong point.

“Do, er, d-do you want to, um, go to prom? I mean, with me?” If he was a ball of raging energy and hormones before, now his heart is in his mouth and the adrenaline coursing through his every vein and nerve is making him feel like he might throw up. He finally did it. He actually asked Louis Tomlinson to go to prom with him, after weeks of bottling up his feelings and backing out at the last minute and just being too damn awkward to say anything, and there’s no way he’s going to do something as ridiculous and disgusting as puking now. He just feels like he might.

*

But then Louis is looking at him with a small smile that is without doubt the cutest thing he’d ever seen, and when he speaks up his voice actually sounds almost shy.

“Yeah, um, that would be great,” he stutters, before regaining some of his usual confidence and beaming widely. “Trust you to cut it this fine, Styles!” Harry manages to laugh at that, a low chuckle that’s a bit too loud for this enclosed space, but that seems to flow out of him along with the tension and anxiety that now just seem so ridiculous as to be almost laughable themselves. His body seems to physically relax as he feels himself grin and move ever so slightly closer to Louis once again. Just as he’s about to counter Louis’ comment, a bellowing from down the corridor causes them both to jump and spring apart in shock.

“Where have you got to, Tomlinson? We’ve been looking everywhere for you!” The door flies open in their faces, and Harry’s view is filled with the beefy stature of Mr Fishburn, who is widely agreed to be the scariest PE teacher in existence.

*

His eyes go the size of saucers, and he can feel himself burning up once again in embarrassment, but the ever-confident Louis simply grins at the teacher in a laid-back way Harry has never managed to master.

“Sorry, sir, I was just helping Harry put his equipment away,” at that Louis winks at Harry, who flushes darker than he knew was possible for someone with his deathly pale complexion.

“Well,” sighs the teacher, looking between the two of them as though he knows something is going on but either doesn’t have the brain-power or the incentive to work it out. “You have to come now, I need you to show the year 7s how to actually kick a goddamn ball!” Nodding, Louis steps forward to follow the teacher out of the cupboard, but as he passes Harry their hands brush together and he turns to whisper in the younger boy’s ear.

“I’ll pick you up at 7, ok? Don’t be late this time!”

* 

As Louis disappears down the corridor, Harry feels like he might burst with happiness. His heart is expanding rapidly inside his chest, filling all the empty spaces with a newfound warmth, and he’s fairly sure if his smile stretches any wider his face will be split in half.

*

(He absolutely definitely doesn’t hug himself hard and lean against the wall and feel his eyes sparkle and his stomach flutter, and if he does then it was totally worth it.)


End file.
